Gathering Storm
by thedagness
Summary: Where she ventured, Death would follow.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Here it is. This is my first Daredevil fic. I think I fell in love with the idea of Kastle like two days ago, which is the same amount of days that have gone since I finished watching season 2 (I also may have watched the entire season within 24 hours). Basically five seconds after their first hospital scene, my mind went rushing with ideas and because I'm such trash, I was all, I LIKE THIS, but my brain went DO NOT. But I did, and I had to put all that sudden energy into something - and this is what came out._

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When it started she didn't recognize it for what it was. Maybe the bleak, hopeless image of Hell's Kitchen sinking further down into the depths of murder, crime and deception had clouded her image and she no longer could seperate an incident from a sign. A part of her thought for a while she simply hadn't wanted to understand that the reaping had suddenly taken a very different turn.

It started with a nick on her bottom lip. For such a small wound, it sure bled a lot. The perp had caught her skulking, gathering information to put their dirty work on freshly printed paper. He'd thought he could scare her off with a slap to her cheek and a warning to hurt her pride. She spat, colouring the ground red as she stared at the retreating criminal. The next day he was found dead in an alley, clean shot through his forehead. Criminals die everyday, Karen told herself, jaws clenched, as she was typing on her laptop.

The same thing happened the following month, this time a smaller group of three criminals found murdered at what was presumed to be a meeting place for their organized crime, gang related negotiations. Tire scratches where visible on the ground, garbage bins had been overturned and the contents scattered; one party of the meeting had been in a hurry to leave. It looked like a meeting gone bad, maybe too many disagreements, conflict of interests. When the report came out, it stated none of the bullets found in the victims matched the bullets found in the concrete walls of the buildings surrounding the place. There had been a third party, this one hadn't missed a shot. It doesn't mean anything, she told herself, but her chest felt cold when she learned the dead criminals had been in possession of a particular set of photos. They were photos of her. They hadn't liked what she was digging up on them.

It went like that. Where she ventured, death followed. The Bulletin investigative journalist inside her usually wouldn't allow herself to believe in coincidences, but the other trusting, hoping young woman inside her kept making excuses. This wasn't about her, she would argue. Who didn't death follow in Hell's Kitchen? Neither Matt nor Foggy said anything when they met up for the occasional catch-up. Matt and Karen had had a fall-out, it seemed things weren't ever going to be the same between them. She was mostly there for Foggy anyway, who spared her the occasional sympathetic glance once the news came. Death. Death in Hell's Kitchen. But they never talked about it. Foggy gave her space and Karen had made sure Matt knew she wasn't his to protect anymore.

The day came when Karen could no longer deny what was happening in front of her. A man had been found dead in a dumpster, clean headshot, body brutally beat, gashes and blood everywere; signs of torture and struggle before death. This one was different. This was the very same man that had attacked and tried to rape her two nights before. She hadn't told anyone, she got away, got a good kick at him, too. It wasn't organized crime, it was a random act of illwill towards the closest viable female. Karen didn't have to look at any pictures to know who had avenged her.

Where she ventured, death would follow. Even in her dreams, it seemed.

He had been there, killing, playing executioner. No. No, that wasn't it. She'd seen things from his point of view, his rough hands had been her own. When the gun went off, everytime the gun went off, she was the one pulling the trigger. She couldn't remember their faces, but Karen knew they were his recent victims, her victims. The faces were blank. Every single face but one. James Wesley stared at her through his lenses, his bloody torn body hanging limp on the chair where he died. He was glaring hateful daggers at her. He blamed her. _You killed me_ , he whispered through blue lips. _Monster... You monster._

Karen shook her head, panic spreading through her foreign body like an aggressive disease. She couldn't move, all she heard was his voice.

 _-Monster._

No.

 _-You killed me._

No. No, please, no.

 _-YOU KILLED ME!_

She woke up in the middle of the night, screaming, tears spilling from her eyes.

"Why you?" Foggy asked one day when they were sitting in a diner, barely having touched the cup of coffee in front of him. Even Foggy had picked up on the pattern, he'd been quiet for a while, but he couldn't keep his questions quenched anymore.

Karen bit her lip and tried to meet his eyes. "I don't know," she sighed. It was the first time either had ever addressed it. "He never shows himself. I haven't seen him for months."

She stirred her own coffee.

"Karen, as much as I'm glad you have an angel on your shoulder, albeit a severely batshit crazy version of an angel," Foggy nodded at her with a sad look in his gentle eyes. "I'm worried for you."

She wanted to tell him " _don't be"_ but she was starting to become worried for herself, too. If _he_ (she couldn't say his name in her head anymore) was out there, protecting her, shielding her, then why did this feel so much like a curse, like she was on some kind of trial?

"I know you believed he could be better than he is. I'm just concerned" Foggy continued, shaking his head in that manner he always did when he was trying to find words, "that one day, if we don't stop this, you're going to be pulled into all of it and there will be no way out."

The air tensed around them and Karen had to replay the words in her head to make sure she had heard him right. She frowned, visibly taken aback. By the look on his face, Foggy knew he'd shoved his foot in his mouth. They were friends. All the more reason why it hurt to hear it from him.

"Right," she murmured.

"Karen, I'm sorry-" he said quickly when she gathered her purse and stood up.

"I'm _not_ some Stockholm case, Foggy." She lingered only a few seconds, her cheeks glowing with hurt pride. "I can't believe you said that. I'll see you later." She walked out before he could see her blank eyes.

She was angry. Angry that he had said that to her. Angry that some part of her also knew that he probably was on to something. The strange undefined bond tying her to Castle, what was it? The danger and mystery drew her in, she knew as much. But she'd told him herself, to his face, she was done with him. _Done_. It didn't make her feel better that none of it explained or motivated why Castle was acting this way. She felt like he was taunting her with his whereness, like he wanted her to think of him as an omnipresent being. She scoffed. He might as well be.

He said she was never in any danger. For a while she thought he'd never hurt her. A cold feeling grew in her chest. Did he know about Wesley? Karen took a deep breath through her nose and steadied herself. She needed answers.

That's why a few days later, she found herself standing in front of what was left of his home. It was only ruins now, still circled by yellow tape. It was the only place she could think of that if he found her by, he'd understand she wanted to talk. His home was the thing that made him trust her, after all. It was a dark evening, the clouds had gathered thick in the sky. The only light Karen had to her disposal was the dim streetlamp. She pulled the coat tighter around herself, protecting her body from the wind. Her warm breath turned into vapor in the air. It was getting colder by the minute. She could hear Foggy in her head, telling her what a stupid, reckless idea this was. Castle would come, he would find her, Karen repeated in her mind like a mantra.

When she had been standing there for 15 minutes, she felt cold and ridiculous. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it had been all in her head, she had projected again. Her eyes fluttered over the ruins of his home. Then maybe he hadn't at all been keeping tabs on her, all the deaths had been a coincidence, after all.

Her chest fell with a sigh and Karen frowned. She felt strangely disappointed.

"What are you doing here?" The gruff voice came from directly behind her.

Karen jumped. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

She heard him chuckle and twirled around to face him. Her breath caught in her throat. "Frank," she exhaled.

Even after months he still looked the same; dark, brooding, menacing clothes, a huge rifle thrown casually over his shoulder like he was carrying a fucking shoulder-bag. She couldn't help herself when her eyes traveled up his body, from the thick military boots, drinking in the familiar shape of him, to his chiseled jaws and cheeks – bruised, as always – and met his black eyes.

"Hey," he murmured, neither smiling nor frowning at her.

"Did you have to do that?" She pressed a hand to her chest.

"Do what?"

"Oh, don't do that."

He smirked at her.

Silence fell between them. She could feel him watching her, feel his eyes taking her in.

"So," he began after a moment.

Everything suddenly boiled up in her, everything she wanted to say, all the feelings she had been going through, confusion, worry, anger, betrayal. "I thought I told you I'm done with you!"

Frank raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, lady, you're the one who-"

"Cut the bullshit, Frank!"

He scoffed, looked down at the ground with a smirk and back up at her again. "Boy, you don't- you don't beat around the bush, Page. I'm doing fine by the way, thanks. How you doing? Good? Great."

She rolled her eyes at the sarcasm in his voice. "You don't even have the right to ask that question anymore, Frank, you lost that right ever since the day you-" Her lips quivered for a moment. She couldn't finish.

As though moving together, when Karen looked down at the ground, subconsciously hiding the weakness showing in her eyes, Frank tilted his head, arched his strong brows in turn to deny her that escape. "Since I killed the Colonel. Right? That it?"

Reluctantly she met his gaze. "What do you want from me?"

"Frankly, I'd like a nice meal, feel like I haven't eaten for a whole month, but I don't see how that's going to happen, standing out here in the cold."

Finally having enough of his bullshit, Karen grit her teeth and pushed him. She actually pushed him. He stumbled backwards. Frank looked as surprised as she felt.

"What are you doing?" she spat, angry tears gathering in her eyes. "Are you playing some kind of game?"

He looked genuinely concerned now. "Page, what-"

"Is this your way of punishing me?"

"Hey, hey-" Frank began softly.

"Is that what you do now?" she continued, pushing him again, but this time he didn't budge, fucking brick wall. Suddenly she hated how strong he was.

"Hey, Page-" he tried again, voice soft and serious, gripping her hands to keep her from pushing him again. She struggled against him. Soon enough he kept a firm grip over her shoulders, keeping her hands trapped tightly between their bodies. She wasn't going anywhere now.

"You can't kill _me_ , so you kill everyone _around_ me? Well, you can go to hell, Frank Castle!"

" _KAREN_!" It was the first time he ever said her name and it snapped her out of it. Wide eyed she stared at him, chest heaving and bottom lip quivering slightly.

He looked genuinely confused and concerned when his eyes fluttered across her sad face. "Why- Why do you think I would punish you?"

At a loss for words, she could do nothing but stare up at him. She didn't know what to say.

"I wouldn't- I'd never hurt you," the innocent confusion in his voice touched something within her chest.

"But all- all the bodies."

He shook his head. "Those low-lives? You know what I do, Page, s'nothing new."

"They're all – every single one of them – connected to me." She gritted her teeth again, he saw the fire building in her eyes again. She started speaking quickly, the way she did when she was angry. "Now don't tell me I'm wrong because I'm not, I'm not stupid, because I know you're the one who's been-"

" _So_ \- you figured I was trying to hurt you?" He scoffed, shaking his head and let her go. "Geez, you women."

It wasn't until he took a step back that Karen realized how close they had been standing a second ago. Now that she thought about it, she had felt Franks breath on her face.

"That the thanks you get, geez," Frank murmured under his breath, shaking his head and brushed his nose with the back of his hand. "You want to know why I killed them? Other than the obvious fact that it's what I've been doing since before we had the honor when you were protecting that dirty prick Grotto."

She blinked and shifted on her feet angrily, but nodded.

"Alright. Where's your gun?"

Her eyebrows drew together and she paused. Frank flicked his fingers at her. "C'mon, pull it out. The gun."

"It's... back at my apartment."

He nodded meaningful at her so as to say ' _well, there you go_ '.

"I don't understand" she laughed bitterly. "Are you saying I forced you to do this?"

"Yeah."

His bluntness made her huff indignantly and she turned around, fists clenched, showing him her back. Frank rolled his eyes. "Ah, don't give me that, babe. I know you can protect yourself. It's the fact that lately, you've refused to do that, that I've been forced to take extra precautions."

"You call beating someone near death taking extra precautions?"

Karen couldn't see, but Frank's jaws clenched and his eyes instantly darkened with suppressed anger attached to the memory of that particular one. She heard his darkening rough voice fine, though. "Ah, you heard about that, huh? 'Course you did." A small pause. "That was for me."

Karen's lids closed hard and she sucked on her bottom lip. She shook her head. This was a mistake. "I can't do this." She started to move.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." he murmured, taking her wrist and pulled her back from leaving. His warm fingers seemed to scorch her pale porcelain skin. Frank forced her to look at him. His gaze was heavy on her, he was searching her face, like he was trying to figure something out. "You thought I'd punish you... Did you do something?"

The cold spread through her chest to her limbs in just a few seconds and Karen yanked her hand back. Thousands of words were running through her head, but she couldn't lie to his face. "I... I didn't mean to- I-"

Something clicked within him, Frank tilted his head at her, trying to understand. "Page, that .380 even yours?"

"I shouldn't have come," Page murmured and turned around to leave.

"No, no, no," he shook his head, beginning to follow her but Karen pushed him back with one hand on his chest. "Page, we're not done here. Page! Stay..."

"Oh, you've got some nerve," she hissed angrily, practically fleeing from him. "I want you to stop what you're doing, Frank. I don't need your protection! Stay away from me!"

His own words echoed back at him. _Stay away from this_. _Stay away from me_. Frank pinched the bridge of his nose, murmuring a curse under his breath.

When she looked back, he was still on the same spot, obscured by the darkness, but it looked like his arms where hanging by his sides. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her leave.

"Just stay away! Just leave me alone, Frank!"

This time, she was deserting _him_. It didn't feel as good as she thought it would. She tried not to think about the bitter taste it left in her mouth.

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A/N: _I'm Kastle Trash. There is no point in even trying to deny it._

 _Hah - oh, we're not done with Frank._

 _Please leave a review! I would really appreciate it! It fuels me._

 _x_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: The single one song that inspired my muse was Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' 'Red Right Hand' which I think honestly goes along so well with the chapter itself._

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 _Take a little walk to the edge of town,_  
 _Go across the tracks,_  
 _Where the viaducts loom, like a bird of doom,_  
 _As it shifts and cracks_

 _Where the secrets lie in the border fires, in the humming wires,_  
 _Hey man, you know you're never coming back,_  
 _Past the square, past the bridge,_  
 _Past the mills, past the stacks,_

 _On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man_  
 _In a dusty black coat with red right hand_

Thick dirty boots barely scraping against the hard cracked rooftop carried each step, strong and direct, with an air of purpose, moving with the kind of confidence that conveyed years of hard earned experience. The figure stopped by the edge of the roof and for a moment, didn't seem to move at all.

With a deep breath, chest expanding and shoulders rising, the Punisher felt the cold, filthy New York gas move through his respiratory system. He never stopped thinking about it, how defiled, ugly and tainted this sore excuse of a city was with shitbags and their shitbag trades. Smacking his lips, he pulled a cylinder container out of the dusty coat he was wearing. Unscrewing the top, he poured the dark steaming liquid into the porcelain mug that seemed to have survived every single outing he'd had.

 _Just leave me alone, Frank!_

The nerves in his lips twitched. Thick lines creased between strong brows. _Hmm-yah_. The comforting familiar taste of coffee spilled between his lips, ran down his throat and straight into his system. Smacked his lips again with a bitter and weak laugh. Thought she was being punished by him, huh. Oh, if she only knew. He remembered. The first time he allowed himself to check on her, first time after she had poured all her hope and faith into him only for him to crush all of that under his boot - Jesus, the way she looked at him. And then he saw it, the cut on her lip, the kind that doesn't happen by just running into a wall or what the fuck normal people accidentally did to themselves. No. No, he knew and it made his blood boil. Whoever did that, whoever touched her - they would pay. He swore an oath to make sure of it. It didn't take long before he made a habit of it.

Distant voices came from an enclosure between the buildings in front of him. Job calling. With a grunt, Frank cracked the bones in his neck and swiftly reassembled his freshly cleaned and oiled rifle, handling every piece with as much gentle care that Frank was capable towards anything. Shit, even Frank knew he took better care of his guns than he did himself. He'd stopped reflecting on how perfectly his arms fit around it, how at ease he was in the carrier position. The weapon itself had stopped being an isolated object and had morphed into something of an extension of himself. It made more sense to him than anything had in a long time. Can't choose the things that fix you, can't choose the things that make you feel whole and driven.

 _I want you to stop what you're doing, Frank!_

He grunted, a deep, raspy sound from his chest. Her voice.

Mumbling something indistinctive, finger on the trigger, he looked through the scope, watching two bulky men walk out the door into the enclosure, followed by his target; a disgusting asshat excuse of a human being. A man of wealth, was already filthy rich when he decided to take a dive into the criminal side of Hell's Kitchen. Dealing guns, guns that – when he traced them - had taken the life of 20 children and young adults, ever since he started with this extracurricular activity. Hadn't pulled the trigger, but sold it to the ones who did. Miss Page and her associates were sniffing around, a great story for the Bulletin, a dangerous risk that could be hard to come back from.

 _Is this what you do now?_

A whispered curse. Focus.

Frank didn't let him out of his sight, when the target moved, the reticle moved along with him. The man was heading towards a waiting and steaming black car, entourage following closely behind.

He held his breath, braced his whole body for the kick-back.

And then – stroking the trigger with his finger - he did something he'd never done before; it had started as a spark somewhere deep in the part of his mind that remembered softness, he considered the other side of the story, the side that wasn't illustrated. This was a wealthy man, an man with a lot of money and ill intent to influence his power. But a family man all the same. Wife and kids back in a giant house, probably sleeping, expecting to see their daddy and husband with them the next morning. Breakfast together, smiling, laughing. They were probably good kids, smart kids.

A vision swam in his mind. A court filled with angry people, screaming, crying and asking, no, _demanding_ blood, demanding his head on a platter for all his sins. And then Karen, Karen with her intelligent eyes, her knowing gaze. Karen who saw something good in him where everyone else saw a wicked, coldblooded killer. Could he be the good person she saw? Was he that person?

Black eyes on the target, a deep breath that expanded a strong, firm chest. Right then, a milisecond of peace and clarity.

 _Nah._

Bang.

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A/N: I know, I know. Not so much Kastle interaction in this one. I wanted to write more in this chapter, but this piece felt so complete, I just couldn't ruin it by suddenly skipping to a new scene. I'm sorry! But I really hope you liked it. This was actually very tough for me to write, I had to really think and put myself a little bit in Frank's head and I have no idea if I've done a good job of it or not. in any case, I'm having a lot of fun writing this and I hope you're getting your kick out of reading it!

Thanks so much for all the reviews! You have no idea how helpful and fueling it's been for me! Please, tell me what the story and the chapters are making you feel, what are your thoughts! Thank you!

x


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